said the missionary, pausing a moment to wipe his brow in
the midst of his labours, "will you fetch the butter now?"

Miles turned to obey with alacrity--with too much alacrity, indeed, for
in his haste he knocked the plate over, and sent the lump of butter into
the last prepared "brew" of coffee!

"Hallo! I say!" exclaimed Brown, in consternation. "More coffee,
Brown," demanded the ladies simultaneously, at that inauspicious moment.

"Yes, Miss, I--I'm coming--directly," cried Brown.

"Do be quick, please!"

"What's to be done?" said Brown, making futile endeavours to fish out
the slippery mass with the stirring-stick.

"Shove it down and stir it well about," suggested Miles.

Whether conscience was inoperative at that moment we know not, but Brown
acted on the suggestion, and briskly amalgamated the butter with the
coffee, while the crowd at the port-hole politely but continuously
demanded more.

"Don't be in a 'urry, Tom," cried a corporal, removing his pith helmet
in order to run his fingers through his hair; "it's a 'eavenly state o'
things now to what it was a few years ago, w'en we an' our poor wives
'ad to sit 'ere for hours in the heat or cold, wet or dry, without
shelter, or a morsel to eat, or a drop to drink, till we got away up
town to the grog-shops."

"Well, this _is_ civilisation at last!" remarked a handsome and hearty
young fellow, who had apparently been ignorant of the treat in store for
him, and who sauntered up to the shed just as the butter-brew was
beginning to be served out.

"Why, I declare, it's chocolate!" exclaimed one of the women, who had
been already served with a cup, and had resolved to "go in," as she
said, for another pennyworth.

"So it is. My! ain't it nice?" said her companion, smacking her lips.

Whether the soldiers fell into the same mistake, or were too polite to
take notice of it, we cannot tell, for they drank it without comment,
and with evident satisfaction, like men of simple tastes and uncritical
minds.

We turn now to a very different scene.

In one of the private sitting-rooms of the Institute sat poor young Mrs
Martin, the very embodiment of blank despair. The terrible truth that
her husband had died, and been buried at sea, had been gently and
tenderly broken to her by Miss Robinson.

At first the poor girl could not--would not--believe it. Then, as the
truth gradually forced itself into her brain, she subsided into a
tearless, expressionless,